by C. J. Box
Back then, Stewie Woods was terribly homely but very charismatic, a gawky teenager turning into a fine but unpredictable athlete, who was already envisioning the building of an environmental terrorist organization that would rock the world. Hayden Powell was handsome, sardonic, and talented and vowed to make Stewie and their joint mission to Save the West famous. Although she never shared their radical passion for environmental causes, Marybeth’s attraction to both rogues was exciting in the same way that it was exciting for other girls her age to hook up with rock stars or rodeo cowboys. Stewie and Hayden were bad boys, smart boys, wild boys, but they had good hearts. They were already wreaking havoc with environmental vandalism. An evening out with them generally involved pulling up survey stakes for a planned pipeline or removing the bolts from bulldozer tread. Although there were several close calls, the three of them never got caught.
And they loved her. Stewie, especially. He was so in love with her that it was as embarrassing as it was flattering. Once, after intercepting a pass for the Winchester Badgers and taking it into the end zone for a touchdown, Stewie had turned to the partisan Saddlestring crowd and spelled out “M-A-R-Y” with his long arms because he knew she was watching the game with her friends.
During the summer, the three of them spent nearly every evening together. They fished, they went to movies, they committed sabotage.
Hayden Powell went on to Iowa State for the writing program. Stewie got a football scholarship to Colorado. Marybeth went south to the University of Wyoming, intending to become a corporate lawyer. Instead, she met Joe Pickett, a gangly, soft-spoken sophomore majoring in wildlife biology.
She had not kept in touch with Stewie Woods or Hayden Powell because they were dangerous. With Joe’s job as a fledgling game warden, they had moved six times in the first nine years and so it had been relatively easy for her to miss the telephone calls, letters, or Christmas cards they might have sent. With her name change and the fact that her mother remarried and moved to Arizona, she knew she would be difficult to track down. But she had read about Stewie’s exploits and seen him on television. The biography had been published six years before, and had garnered minor critical attention but instant cult status. At the time, Joe and Marybeth were in Buffalo, Wyoming, with Joe’s first full-fledged district as game warden. Marybeth was pregnant with Lucy, Joe worked insanely long hours, and Sheridan was a four-year-old. Marybeth couldn’t have been further removed from the environmental derring-do of Stewie Woods or the literary escapades of Hayden Powell if she lived on the moon.
Finally, a year ago, during her breaks while working in the county library, she had read the biography. She had not checked the book out or brought it home. Stewie had mentioned “his first love, Mary Harris” but, thank God, he didn’t know her married name. But she was in there. And she had to admit to herself that when she found the volume the first thing she looked for was her name and what Stewie had said about her.
Marybeth assumed that the reporter had read the same biography, but unlike Stewie, the reporter had located her. And the reporter wanted some comments from her for his story.
She had never told Joe about this short period in her life. It hadn’t seemed necessary; it would have complicated things that didn’t need complicating.
But now, she thought, she needed to talk to her husband. She would do so when he got home that evening. He deserved to know why she was upset at breakfast the week before and he needed to know about the telephone calls from the reporter. It was better she tell him than that he find out when a story was published in a magazine or he heard it some other way. It was time.
Marybeth checked her watch and realized it was time for her to leave for her job at the stables.
As she grabbed her purse and headed out the front door, she could hear the telephone ringing in the kitchen.
9
Because the snow had finally melted and backwoods mountain roads were opening up to four-wheel-drive vehicles, fishermen were starting to work the streams and spring creeks in the Bighorns and Joe Pickett needed to check licenses and limits. Most of the streams were still high and muddy and wouldn’t clear and level out for another month, but local flyfishing guides were already placing clients at deep pools and beaver ponds. Mayfly hatches, the first sign of summer for flyfishermen, had begun. And if there were fishermen and — women, that meant there were licenses to check. Fishers used the Hazelton Road for access to the streams, which is how Joe found himself once again near the site of the exploding cow. He wanted to see the crater again, for reasons he wasn’t quite sure of.
Joe approached the crater along the same path he had taken two weeks earlier with Sheriff Barnum and Deputy McLanahan. Because of the heavy foot and gurney traffic of the EMTs, forensics teams, state Department of Criminal Investigation (DCI) agents, curiosity seekers, and dozens of locals trooping back and forth from the road to the crime scene, the path had become a trail. It was churned up and easy to follow.
He wanted to visit the site again in the daylight and, possibly, resolve the impression he had that night of being watched. As he approached the crater he hoped that something would put that lingering suspicion to rest.
This kind of thing had happened to him before. There had been a turn on the road near the foothills of the mountains that had, for months, given him an uneasy feeling whenever he drove by. There had been something in an aspen grove that troubled him. The evening hours as the sunset lengthened shadows and a certain stillness set in unsettled him. Finally, he had stopped his truck and walked up the grassy draw. As he neared the trees he drew his weapon because the ill feeling, whatever it was, got stronger. Then he saw it and for a brief, terrifying moment, he was face to face with the Devil himself. Within the thick stand of trees stood the gnarled, twisted, coiled black figure of. a single burned tree stump.
The distance to the crater through the trees seemed shorter than it had that night, and he was surprised how quickly he was upon it. Within and around the crater, Joe knew there would be nothing to be found that hadn’t already been examined, tested, or photographed. The official conclusion of the joint report filed by both the Sheriff’s Office and DCI bore out Barnum’s original theory-that Stewie Woods had accidentally set off explosives because he was unfamiliar with them. They also found out that the woman who was with him was actually his wife of three days. A Justice of the Peace in Ennis, Montana, had come forth with the marriage certificate.
He slowly circled the crater. The dead cattle had long been removed. Fallen pine needles had begun to carpet the exposed earth of the hole. A few pale blades of grass were the first soldiers to reclaim the ground. The exposed roots that had looked so white and tender that night had hardened or thrust themselves back into the earth.
If he looked at the trees and branches in the right light Joe could still see dried blood, but rain, insects, birds, and rodents had cleaned nearly all of the bark. Years from now, Joe thought, passing hikers or hunters might remark on the depression in the trail, bypass it when it filled with rain. But there would be nothing remarkable about it.
So far he hadn’t seen anything that could make him forget or explain that feeling he’d had of being watched.
Squinting, Joe tipped his head back. The explosion had cleared a passage in the spruce trees through which he could see the sky and two lone clouds. High in the tree above him was a stout branch that had been stripped of bark. Joe stepped into the crater for a better look. Something about the color of the dead branch didn’t look right. Exposed dead pine turned a cream color. This branch, angled up from the trunk in the shape of a fishhook, was coffee brown. The branch was thick enough to support a big man. Especially if the man were skewered to the tree by the force of an explosion.
Joe crossed his arms and shook his head. There was no way what he was thinking could be possible. Even if it was, he thought, there was no way that all of the people who had been there since the explosion would not have seen it. Someone, at some point, had to look up.
The branch, close up, was certainly dark enough to have been stained with blood. But what he hoped to see was proof-dried rivulets or strands of fiber from clothing. He saw neither. Pulling himself even tighter to the tree with one arm, he reached out with his free hand and tried to break the branch, to no avail. Using his fingernails, he tried to chip off some of the stained wood so he could have it tested. But the branch was hard and he had no leverage to splinter it. His leg began to quiver and his calf and thigh muscles screamed. To relieve the pressure, Joe grasped the dead branch to balance himself. He pressed his cheek to the trunk of the tree.
Suddenly, there was percussive flapping above him. The sound frightened him and nearly made him lose his grip. He looked up at a huge black raven that had just landed inches from his hand. The raven looked down at him with sharp ebony eyes and sidestepped along the branch until one clawed black foot touched Joe’s hand. The bird stared at Joe and Joe stared back. He had never seen a raven this close, and it was remarkable how inert and shiny the bird’s eyes were. Its beak was slightly hooked on the end and was the color of dull black matte. Its feathers were so black that they reflected blue, like Superman’s hair in the comics.
Then the raven struck, burying its beak into the back of Joe’s hand. Reflexively, Joe let go, which shifted his balance, and his boot slipped off of the knot. He clearly heard the hum of his shirt on the bark as he dropped and he felt his trouser cuffs gather up beneath his knees. A live branch that had been welcoming on the way up hit him under the arm on the way down and knocked him backward where he fell cleanly for a moment, then crashed through another branch, then landed hard on his back at the base of the tree with his knees wrapped around the trunk like a lover.
When he was able to breathe normally, Joe opened his eyes. Small orange spangles floated through the sky along with the clouds. He did an inventory of his limbs and found that nothing was broken. His back ached, his hand was punctured and bloody near the knuckles from the raven, and his shirt and pants were disheveled and torn. The insides of his legs were rubbed raw and his shins were scraped. But he was all right.
He rolled to his feet and stood up warily. He had landed on his hat so he retrieved it and tried to restore the smashed-in crown. Painfully, he looked back at the dead branch. The raven was still there, and stared coldly back at him.
“You okay?” someone asked from the other side of the crater. The voice startled Joe, and he turned toward it. “You really made a lot of noise coming down out of that tree. We thought a tree was falling over or something.”
It was Raga and Tonk, the two campers he had met the week before. They had just emerged from the pathway in the trees. Both wore daypacks.
“I’m fine. You’re still here?” Joe asked. “Weren’t you going to Canada or somewhere?”
Raga leaned forward on a walking stick. “Been there and back.”
“Where’s the woman who was with you?” Joe asked.
Raga and Tonk shared a conspiratorial glance, but didn’t answer Joe’s question.
“Did you hear about Hayden Powell? The writer? His house burned down in Washington state,” Raga said, his eyes cold. “This time, they found the body.”
Joe had heard the name Hayden Powell somewhere, but was not familiar with him or Tonk’s story.
“Charred beyond recognition,” Tonk added for emphasis.
“So first there was Stewie, then Hayden,” Raga continued, his tone fused with deliberate irony. “I wonder who will be next?”
Joe clamped his misshapen hat on his head. “You folks like conspiracies, don’t you?”
Raga sneered and gestured toward the crater. “The people who did this will come back. I hope you’re ready for them when they do.”
Joe tried to read the faces of the two men. Raga was still sneering, Tonk nodding in agreement with what Raga had just said.
“Do you know something you should tell me?” Joe asked.
Raga slowly shook his head no. “They’ll be back here,” he said simply.
10
Returning home, Joe crossed the bridge that spanned the Twelve Sleep River and drove through the three-block length of Saddlestring’s sleepy downtown. The insides of his thighs and the palms of his hands still stung from the fall. There was a dull ache in the back of his neck. Worst of all, his hat was crushed. It was just after five o’clock and most of the shops were already closed and the street virtually empty of traffic. Knots of cars and pickups were parked in front of the two bars on Main Street.
Saddlestring, once on the verge of a natural gas pipeline boom two years before that Joe inadvertently helped stymie, had once again settled into being a place considered “unchanging and rustic” in the view of some or “nearly dead” in the view of others. The discovery of species thought extinct-Miller’s weasels-had created a tourism surge at the same time the town was seeing a brief cessation of traditional industries such as logging, mining, and outfitting in the remote area of the Bighorns, now known, sort of, as the Miller’s Weasel Ecosystem. Interagency squabbling was still delaying the official unique designation of the ecosystem. In the meanwhile, the last known colony of Miller’s weasels, the Cold Springs Group, had died out. Although Joe knew of another colony, the location remained a cherished secret between Sheridan and him, and neither ever talked about it. Scientists, biologists, and ecotourists no longer came for the purpose of seeing where the creatures that “captured a nation” once were, but the town, and the valley, continued to limp along. Saddlestring, as a place of interest to most outsiders, had once again dropped out of view.
Joe stopped at the corner before he turned toward Bighorn Road. Across the street were two buildings with ancient western storefronts, Bryan’s Western Wear and Wolf Mountain Taxidermy. The taxidermy studio was a rarity in that it was so well known in the state and throughout the Northern Rockies that it stayed open the entire year. Most studios closed for three or four months until hunting seasons opened again. The taxidermist, Matt Sandvick, had won dozens of awards for his work and was sought out by wealthy hunters. In addition to moose, deer, pronghorn antelope, and other Wyoming big game and fowl, Sandvick often did tigers, Alaskan brown bears, and other exotic species from around the world. He was the taxidermist of choice for wealthy, status-conscious men.
Which is why Joe canceled his turn signal and proceeded through the intersection and parked his pickup on the curb. He had been thinking of Matt Sandvick’s work for several days. He was the best Joe had ever seen. A Sandvick mount had a certain clean, natural simplicity that brought the animal back to life. His work was subtle but regal, and left an impression on the admirer. Joe was just such an admirer. And it made him wonder about something.
As usual, there was no one in the outer office when Joe entered Wolf Mountain Taxidermy. Dozens of photos of mounts were beneath a sheet of glass on the counter, and a huge moose head dominated the wall above a door that led to the studio. Joe rang a bell next to a brochure rack full of price lists and waited.
Matt Sandvick was a short, powerful man with close-cropped red hair and thick horn-rimmed glasses. He emerged from his studio cleaning his hands with a stained towel. Joe had met him several times and had been in the shop during hunting season to confirm that hunters had properly tagged all of the game animals turned over to Sandvick. Sandvick took a good deal of pride in his work. They got along well.
“What happened to you?” Sandvick asked, his eyes widening as he looked at Joe’s torn shirt, bloody
hand, and crushed hat.
Joe tried to think of something snappy to say, but couldn’t think of anything.
“Fell out of a tree,” Joe said, smiling with a hint of embarrassment.
Sandvick stifled a laugh. “Okay,” he said, drawing the word out to indicate disbelief.
“Getting ready for hunting season?” Joe asked in a neighborly way.
“Always,” Sandvick nodded. “Things are slowing down around here. A few fish is all. A nice twenty-two-inch cutthroat trout back there. You want to look at it?”
Joe shook his head no. He agreed that 22 inches was big for a cutthroat. Matt, Joe thought, I’m sorry for what I’m about to do.
Then: “You know that big bull elk you did for Jim Finotta last year? Was that an eight-by-eight?”
“Nine-by-seven,” Sandvick corrected. “The only one I’ve ever seen.”
“I would have sworn it had eight on each side.” Joe said, looking quizzically at Sandvick. “I saw it just a few weeks ago in his office.”
“Nope,” Sandvick countered, “I’ll prove it to you.” Sandvick pushed his glasses up on his nose and studied the photos under the glass on the counter. He settled his index finger on a shot of Finotta’s bull elk mount while it was still in the studio. Joe bent, a little stiffly, to get a better look.
“You okay?” Sandvick asked.
“My back hurts from that fall,” Joe said, distracted. He studied the photo. There were nine tines on one antler and seven on the other, just like Sandvick said. There was also a very small LCD date stamp on the bottom right of the photograph that read “9-21.”
